by Roger Hayden
“Yeah, it's me,” he said, once Patterson answered.
“Harry Houdini. Where in the hell have you been? I've been calling you all day.”
“Family time. Look, I'm sorry. You get anything yet?”
Patterson cleared his throat. “Well, while you've been ignoring me all day, I've been running some records on the rental van—”
“Patterson, wait,” Craig said, interrupting.
“What? What is it?”
Craig looked at himself in the mirror. His disheveled hair. The bags under his eyes. His wrinkled, untucked dress shirt. His silver watch. The dark scruff building on his face from not shaving for a day. A conflicted man stared back at him.
He hadn't told Patterson that the case had been closed and that they had been assigned elsewhere. Patterson asked what he wanted again, waiting for a response.
“Nothing. Go on,” Craig said.
“The van was rented under a different name, not the driver's.”
“An alias?”
“No alias,” Patterson said. “The name's legit. Or at least I think it's legit. And get this: whoever rented that van lives close. Like, Richmond, Virginia close.”
“What’s the name?” Craig asked in eager anticipation.
“Rasheed Surkov, a Chechen immigrant.”
“What would a Chechen nationalist be doing linked up with Syrian ISIS members?” Craig asked.
“Don't ask me. Why did Cheech team up with Chong? Common goals, I imagine.”
“Or Mussolini and Hitler,” Craig muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. We need to get on this before Homeland blows us out of the water.”
“What’s the plan?”
Craig cracked the bathroom door open. Rachael lay in bed, staring at the TV at the foot of the bed. Some late night talk show was on. She looked unhappy. He hoped that she would understand. She usually did.
“Where are you?” Craig asked.
“I'm still at the office. Been here all day, no thanks to you.”
He slowly pushed the bathroom door closed again. “I'm on my way.”
He hung up with Patterson and took one last look in the mirror. The road ahead was uncertain, but he didn't see it any other way.
Going Rogue
Under the night sky, Craig's Taurus sped down the windy roads of his Rockville suburb onto the interstate toward D.C. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in ages, it seemed, but didn't feel the least bit tired. He was on edge—one hand on the steering wheel and the other clutching a large thermos of coffee to get him through the night.
Caught between keeping the details of his investigation hidden from both the FBI and his family, he had assured Rachael that he'd be back soon. Many things were at stake, he explained, and he didn't have a choice. She understood. At least he thought she did.
He pulled into the underground parking garage, swiped his card at the gate sensor, and shuttled into a parking lot. The clock on his dashboard said twelve forty-five. After another swig from his thermos, and Craig got out of his car and hurried to the building. The halls inside were quiet and empty. Most of the offices had their lights off. There were a few agents roaming about, and Craig tried to remain low-key and kept his head down, not making eye contact with any of them.
He took an elevator to the second floor where he and Patterson had adjoining offices. He moved down the carpeted hallway that served a wide area of cubicles, most of them empty. During the day, it was a different story. As Craig walked in Patterson’s office, he saw his partner sitting with his head in his arms resting on the desk.
“Snap out of that wet dream. We’ve got work to do,” he said.
Patterson's head jerked up. He looked at Craig through squinted eyes. “You bastard. It was getting really good.”
Craig didn't waste any time. “We need to get to this address quick. No time to spare.”
He walked into his office and grabbed some files from his desk, an old mahogany fixture with lots of history. Patterson was noticeably exhausted, yawning and stretching intermittently. Craig walked in again, holding his files, and patted Patterson on the back.
“I'll drive, buddy. Don't worry about a thing. Two and a half hours tops.”
“Taking the squad car?” Patterson asked.
“That's okay,” Craig said. “We'll take my car.”
Patterson gave him a funny look. “Driving around on your own dime?”
Craig shot past him toward the door. “It’s better that way.”
Patterson rose from his desk. “If you say so.”
They walked down to the parking lot and left in Craig's car.
“What’s the plan?” asked Patterson. “I mean, once we get there?”
Craig laid out the details of the plan the best he could. They were going to watch the place. Patterson groaned. It was a quarter past one when they passed the Washington Monument, the World War II memorial, and the Reflecting Pool and merged onto the south I-95 ramp exit leading to Virginia. Patterson's head was already bobbing up and down. At some point, Craig knew he was going to have to tell him that nothing about what they were doing had been authorized.
An hour later, they stopped for some coffee after making it across the Virginia state line. Patterson seemed attentive and ready as Craig turned down the volume on the light rock playing over the radio.
“There's something you need to know. Something I haven't had the time to go into detail about,” Craig said.
“That this job sucks?” Patterson asked, taking a sip of coffee from a steaming Styrofoam cup.
“Yes and no. You see, I had a little meeting with the assistant deputy director today.”
“Calderon? What did that ballsack want?”
“He took us off the case.”
“What case?”
Craig paused slightly. “This case.”
Patterson looked confused. Then it hit him. “I knew it! I told you we couldn’t trust Homeland. So what does that mean? Why are we doing this?”
Craig’s eyes were steady and locked on the road. “You know as well as I do that we have to pursue this lead. There’s too much at stake.”
“We could lose our jobs here. Our pensions. Everything. I have a family. You have a family. You're gonna throw all that away over this?”
“If you want out, that’s fine with me. No hard feelings.”
Patterson scoffed. “How considerate of you. You should have told me this right after your meeting. We're partners, and we're supposed to look out for each other.”
“I know, and I'm sorry. That's why I want to give you a chance to walk away.”
Patterson shifted in his seat uncomfortably and then scratched his head as if trying to come to some decision.
Craig continued. “Whatever you want to do. It's up to you.”
“What authority do we even have here? Say we stumble on some organization. What are we going to do, blow them a kiss?”
“We gather evidence and take it back to the station, convince them that we need to re-open this case.”
Patterson's fist slammed onto the dashboard. “You really think you can get through to them? Are you that dense?”
Craig didn't respond as he steered the car through the Virginian landscape.
Patterson calmed himself. “I guess I'm in too deep now,” he said, shaking his head.
“You do whatever you think is best,” Craig said. “I’m not stopping. We’re too close.”
Craig checked his GPS. They were thirty minutes from the address: 20 West Dupont Circle, Apartment 308, Richmond Virginia 23218. Once the city was in range, Patterson objected no more.
It was half past three in the morning. Skyscrapers towered overhead as they drove through the metropolitan areas, the Richmond port, and then deeper into the urbanized, diminished west side. Craig assured Patterson that their unexpected arrival so early in the morning would work in their favor. After many side streets and turns, they found themselves near a high-rise apartment
complex.
Graffiti covered nearly every wall, alleyway, bridge overpass, and newspaper stand around. Cars were parked on both sides of the street. Taxis passed by every so often. Things were quiet. Some shadowed figures huddled inside a fenced-in basketball court looked over as they pulled up.
“Apparently, we’ve stumbled upon a Boy Scout meeting,” Patterson said. He examined the apartment complex in question. “And what kind of intel are we going to get watching a fifteen-story building?”
Craig parked between two other cars facing the building. “Our sleeper cell link awaits.”
“Needle in a haystack,” Patterson replied.
Craig leaned forward and popped the trunk. He then walked out onto the sidewalk directly to the back.
Surprised, Patterson turned to him. “What are you doing?”
Craig dug into his pocket, put some quarters in the parking meter, and turned around. “Going to find our needle.” He went to the trunk and pulled the lid up. Inside was a steel carrying case. He grabbed the case and closed the trunk as a police siren wailed in the distance.
Patterson opened his door and stepped outside. “They’re gonna throw you in a mental institution one day.”
Craig walked along the cracked sidewalk under the buzzing street lights overhead, examining every parked vehicle he passed. Patterson caught up to him as he got closer to the building entrance.
“Are we going in?” he asked.
“I don't see any other option,” Craig answered.
“What happened to waiting? Biding our time?”
Craig looked at his watch. “There's still plenty of time for that.”
Patterson stepped in front of Craig, blocking him. “I thought we had an agreement. You're supposed to tell me everything. No more surprises.”
Craig held up the case. “We're conducting surveillance. A simple hidden camera outside the door to the Surkov residence.”
Patterson was impressed. “Hell, why don't we just shoot a tracker chip into his brain.”
“I would if we could,” Craig said, walking off. Patterson followed him into the dimly lit entrance to the towering apartment complex, keeping one hand on his pistol, raising its holster around his waist.
Past the front entrance, unlocked but ironically protected by iron bars, they walked into the lobby, a wide-open room furnished with a few chairs knocked over, and a stained, green carpet with flickering long ceiling bulbs hanging overhead. The front desk was closed—indicated by a rolling aluminum door locked over the counter. The building, and the neighborhood for that matter, didn't look like the kind of place anyone would want to be caught alone in at night. There was an elevator to their right with an “Out of Order” sign on it. Across from the elevator was a door leading to the stairs.
Patterson stopped and looked at Craig. “Third floor, right?”
“Yep. Apartment 308.”
Patterson pushed open the door and led the way as they ascended the dimly lit stair-case. The walls were stained and covered with decades’ worth of overlapping grit. “I'd hate to see the ratings for this place on apartments.com,” he said as they climbed up the second flight of stairs.
“I think our suspect chose this building for a reason,” Craig said.
“Because he’s poor?”
“Because the authorities are less likely to bother him here.”
“Could be a little of both,” Patterson said.
They pushed past the entrance to the third floor and slowly crept along the glossy concrete floor of the hall. Doors covered in thick, brown paint with tiny peep holes were aligned along each side, and at the end, the hall split off into two directions. Craig followed the number on each door. They were in the three twenties. Most of the overhead light bulbs were either burnt out or flickering. Patterson drew his 9mm from his holster.
“What are you doing?” Craig asked.
“This place looks like something out of a damn horror movie. I'm not taking any chances.”
“Just keep it low key.”
They followed the hall as it angled right, nearing the teens. Black bags of trash were piled up outside one apartment they passed. “Nice,” said Patterson, who then nearly tripped over a beer bottle, sending it rolling down the hall. “Shit. Sorry,” he said.
Craig flashed him a glance of disbelief and frustration and then shook his head. They came to 308 near the end of the hall, on their left.
“Well. Should we knock?” Patterson said, jokingly.
Craig knelt down, wasting no time, and opened his case. “Keep an eye out for me.”
Inside the case, resting on foam padding, were a laptop, battery and several cords. He pulled out a small device, about the size of a domino, and turned on both the laptop and the camera device to make sure they were synchronized and running. Once everything was in order, he pointed the camera at Patterson, who stood guard.
“Smile, you’re on America’s Most Wanted.”
Patterson looked at the laptop and saw himself on screen.
“I’m impressed. The FBI finally invested in webcams.”
“They prefer to call them spy cameras.”
“It does sound a lot cooler,” Patterson conceded.
Craig examined the walls behind him and across from apartment 308. He looked at his watch again. It was close to four. Not a soul was around. There were no sounds of movement from inside any of the other apartments. The time was right.
He planted the spy camera as high as he could above the frame of the door directly across from 308. All it took was one quick turn from his mini-electric screwdriver and the camera was in place. Its lithium battery could keep it powered for up to eight hours.
Craig did another system check, shut the carrying case, and stood up. As tempting as it was to bust down the door of 308, they had other ideas. They exited the building as quickly as they had entered, went back to the car, and waited.
Morning came, and Craig hadn't taken his eyes off the screen in his lap. On his third cup of coffee in three hours, Patterson did his best to remain attentive. The street had come alive with movement left and right. A garbage truck roared past. City buses made their stops. People shuffled onboard while others moved along the sidewalks, taking little notice of the two FBI agents sitting in a parked vehicle on the side of the road.
“Two hours and not a single person has walked by that hall camera,” Craig said. Just as Patterson was about to respond, Craig perked up. “Hold on,” he said.
A woman walked past the grainy frame with four young children following.
“Never mind. False alarm,” Craig said.
“Let's hope that Mr. Surkov isn’t a late sleeper,” Patterson said. He looked ahead and noticed a diner on the corner of the street. He could smell the bacon and eggs in the air. “How about I go over there and pick us up some grub?”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Craig said, staring at the screen.
Patterson opened the door.
“Wait!” Craig said intensely.
On screen, a young man exited the apartment and walked out into the hall. He was wearing a hat, an orange summer jacket, and a black backpack over his shoulders. He didn't look a day over seventeen.
“That's our sleeper cell mastermind?” Patterson asked in astonishment.
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “Looks a little too young.”
An older man now exited the room, taller and with facial hair. He had on jeans, a blue summer jacket, and a small backpack as well.
“The tall one. That’s Rasheed,” Patterson said. He fished in his pocket and unraveled a folded print-out of Rasheed’s driver’s license.
“Yep. That’s him,” Patterson said.
Both men had similar square-jawed facial features and thick, curly dark hair, though much of the younger one's hair was matted under his ball cap. Rasheed appeared to be examining his counterpart from head to toe. His mouth moved, but they couldn't hear anything he was saying.
“You got audio on this thing?” Patte
rson asked.
“Just video,” Craig said.
The younger one unzipped his jacket, exposing a small bulletproof vest with a camera attached to it.
“What the hell is that? A camera?” Patterson asked.
After closing and locking the door, Rasheed pulled a green Adidas ball cap from his pocket and placed it on his head. Both men then walked out of the frame.
Craig shut his laptop, turned and placed it on the back seat behind them after telling Patterson to keep watch.
“We might have to split up,” Craig said. “There’s more than one exit to that building.”
Suddenly Rasheed and his companion walked out the front exit of the building, just as Craig had hoped. Their suspects moved quickly with their heads down, right toward the diner Patterson had suggested going to.
“Ready to do a little legwork?” Craig asked.
Patterson nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Let's move.”
The Chase
Craig and Patterson kept a careful distance, moving around people and approaching the corner of a crosswalk where Rasheed and his companion waited for the walk sign to flash. Craig could see Rasheed’s green Adidas hat in the small crowd and stopped. Ideally he wanted to keep as much distance as possible and simply observe their activities and where they went.
The light changed, their suspects crossed the street, and Craig and Patterson followed closely behind. Once they reached the next street, Rasheed and the other man stopped in front of “Lee’s Diner”—the same diner Patterson had expressed interest in.
Craig watched from about ten feet away as their suspects talked to each other.
“They stopped,” Patterson said, leaning on a newspaper stand.
“I know.”
“Why?”
Craig looked at Patterson in disbelief. “I don’t know!”
Rasheed hugged the boy, pulled away, and said a few more words with an intense, un-blinking glare.
Craig tried to looking inconspicuous while keeping a careful eye on their suspects.